Emma
I sit in the small diner, alone, on a Saturday.
Another one of those spent alone.
I remember days when I used to have friends. When I used to have people who cared about me and people I cared about, too.
Now a simple act of kindness would surprise me. I remember a few weeks back, my grandma made me some apple pie, I asked her why, and she told me she just wanted to.
I spend the rest of the day crying, while she combed my hair and comforted me.
It feels so weird to be here, in this town. I was stuck in hell for so long, all of this feels almost too good to be true.
I furrow my eyebrows in concentration, as my pen harshly scribbles down against the paper. I'm so focused on the sound of the harsh movements I get sucked in to my own emotions and just end up scribbling across the whole page. I let go of the pen, with my breath almost staggered and stare at the black, scribbled page.
This is me.
Messed up in all aspects. So confused, lost, and unstable, just like the scribbles on my paper.
I close the notebook with a louder thud than I expected it and look down at the table aimlessly.
I breath out a sigh and wonder, when I'm going to be okay again.
The terrible thought I'm never going to be okay, scares me. But deep down I know it's not far from the truth.
I notice the sleeve of my hoodie rising up, uncovering one of the cigar burns. I widen my eyes, pulling it back down, before anybody sees.
I furrow my eye brows in confusion, when two seconds later, I see someone place a coffee on the table. At first I thought it was the barista, just bringing me my order, but then I remember I didn't order any coffee.
I look up, and am faced with the same guy I ran into a couple days ago, which only makes me more confused.
"Is this seat taken?" he asks, and I glance around the diner, the place nearly empty at this hour - it's six in the morning.
I couldn't sleep, don't judge me.
"Um, no, it isn't. But so isn't the rest of this place." I say looking down. I don't want him to sit here, talking to me. Why would he even want to?
"I know. You just look like you could use some company." he says, taking his seat.
I eye him, and just sink into my seat more, not really wanting his company. I didn't want anyone looking at me.
"Whatcha got there?" he asks, motioning to my notebook.
"Uh, it's nothing." I say. I don't want him
to look in there. To me looking at people's drawings is a really personal and intimate thing. When you are looking at someones drawing you are actually looking at their emotions, personal life, interest, emotions, everything is explained in there. I might as well tell him my life story.
"I saw you scribble something in there, before. Do you draw?" he continues.
Can't he just leave and stop bothering me?
"Yes, but I don't see why that would interest you." I reply.
"Why would it not?" he says back. I don't know if he could see I was a bit taken back by his reply, but when the waiter finally brought my croissant that I ordered, I looked away blushing in embarrassment.
"I'm Ethan by the way." he says, reaching his hand over the table.
I hesitate to shake his hand, and make sure to pull my sleeve further down, so that when I do, I don't accidentally expose any of my scars to him.
"Emma." I say simply.
"Cool."